


I Haven't Told You

by More_words



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: F/M, My First AO3 Post, POV Fleabag (Fleabag), POV Priest (Fleabag)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 18,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26337730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/More_words/pseuds/More_words
Summary: **A work in progress** also First Work SharedI just don't think the story has ended, so I'm writing more words in hopes that I can find a way for Fleabag (I've named her Eliza) and Priest (Andrew) to find their way to peace. PWB's scripts are incredible and were masterfully brought to life by a talented team of many, but I'm the wordy sort so there's a lot more description in this imagined continuation. Hoping to work in some sexy bits but trying to stay in keeping with the more minimalist approach from the original episodes. Less is more, right? Unless it's less of the Priest. ;)
Relationships: Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 73





	1. Run, Don't Walk

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy.

He got nine blocks away from the bus stop and simply couldn't walk any further. Broken and alone again. His shoulders hung in defeat and every exhale felt like fighting. Think. Think. Jesus, Andrew, think. A flood of doubt had broken his confidence as his heart had become heavier with every step away from her. He willed himself to continue walking but instead collapsed in slow motion like a push puppet loose of its strings and sat on the brick border of a stately residential garden, his dressing case lain flat on the walk. Betrayed, he squinted at the case and screwed up his mouth in anger. He kicked it. 

“Damn! Damnit! Fucking hell...”

He spoke to the air, to his God, and his grief and anger spit from his mouth as if he could provoke the Spirit himself to appear. Another defiant kick at the dressing case sent it across the walk and over the curb edge, landing off-kilter in the street. 

“I promised to love one thing. I swore...” he shook his head regretfully.

A rustle and the Priest was alert, looking over his shoulder, left, right, then left again. His body stiffened and he shrunk into himself slowly. He knew it was the fox.

Silence. 

Defeat washed over him again realizing his last sacrifice had left him defenseless. He was at his most vulnerable and should have known the fox would come.

“Alright then!” he shouted to no one. “Come on— I've got nothing for you, so let's have it out!” He felt a fool, carrying on at this time of night. A tired Priest, raving in the lamplight, half way to the parish, tears just now drying on his cheeks. He must look mad. 

A faint clip clip of feet on the walk and the fox came into view just past the waste bin and it cautiously approached the Priest. Not threatening exactly but not friendly either. 

“What do you want? What. Do. You. Want?! I did it. I let her go.”

The fox was still. Father Andrew squinted at it as though sizing him up. What a craft was this torment. The fox was still. A full minute the Priest and the fox held each other's gaze. Father Andrew let out a bemused chuckle under his breath. The laughter rose again, building, becoming louder, more ridiculous. The fox held his gaze.

“Alright then. Now you've found me. I'm all yours.” With this he surrendered, spreading his arms wide in an exaggerated, dramatic arc. “Do your worst.”

The fox swung its head low and took an exploratory step as if to approach. Suddenly more domestic pet than tormentor, the Priest was caught off guard by this uncharacteristic behavior. But the fox changed course and began to retreat in the direction from which it had arrived.

What the fuck? That?! That was it? God worked in mysterious ways but he wasn't giving the Priest much to work with here. The fox paused its canter and turned to look back at the Priest. He waited. The fox sat down on its hindquarters and stared at the Priest.

“What?!” Father Andrew was annoyed. He was tired, and he was utterly confused.

The fox stared. Completely out of patience, Father Andrew pushed himself up off the garden border and took a step toward his dressing case. He ought to go home. 

The fox surprised the Priest with a short, gravelly “yarl!” and Andrew froze. Without turning his head he eyed the fox. After a moment he again extended his arm toward the case— “yarl!” the fox's rebuke was louder this time.

“Oh, come on! I can't just leave it here. The damp will ruin the needlework and I'll never hear the last of it from Pam.” The fox narrowed its eyes just slightly and cracked its mouth, sounding a low, quiet snarl. Jesus even the fox took knew Pam was a tyrant! This stand off was becoming ridiculous.

“Okay. You want me to leave it, yeh?”

The fox turned and began trotting in the direction of the bus stop. The Priest tried one last time for the case while the fox wasn't looking, but as if he had eyes in the back of his head, the fox cast a reproving glance and waited. 

“Oh, alright. Alright! I get it.” 

The fox waited, doubtful.

“I get it,” the Priest said emphatically. “What now?”

The fox began an elegant, steady tread down the street. His bushy tail swayed low to the ground like a pocket watch in the hands of a hypnotist and Father Andrew followed. 

Every so often the fox would turn to check that the Priest was still following. Twice Father Andrew slowed his pace, widening the fox's lead in an attempt to lose him. He had things to do! His case was— Fuck! The case! But the fox stopped each time. Reluctantly, the Priest walked on. They came upon the bus stop and he slowed, bringing his hand to his face. Lost in the replay of his heartbreak less than an hour old, he stopped and ran his the side of his thumb back and forth across his lower lip. Her kiss. He felt so alive when he kissed her. Like being lifted from out of the doldrums, waking from a weary sleep, her touch warmed him, and her breath, her breath on his skin... the careful way she had traced her fingertips over his biceps while they lay in her bed.

From the corner of his eye the Priest registered a change in the bus indicator. He came back to the present and was startled to realize the fox was now at his side. 

The priest suddenly drew a deep, expansive breath, blinked twice and his eyes widened tentatively. He felt a calm wash over him. Resolute, he addressed his fox friend.

“That's it, then.” He bit his lip and his head bobbed gently. The Priest and the fox shared a conspiratorial, electric look. “Shall we go get her?” 

Each step compounded his momentum and his deliberate pace accelerated with a sense of excitement and urgency. At the finish he had been full on running and it wasn't until Father Andrew was standing, slightly out of breath at Eliza's door that he looked down. His expression was both incredulous and celebratory, a broad congratulatory smile giving him an excited, if not slightly ruddy glow. But the fox had gone. 

“Right then.” He reached out to ring the bell but pulled back, his hand frozen. Instead he reached up and hooked his finger over the top of his clerical collar, pulling it loose and tucking it into his pants pocket. In a hushed voice he recalled aloud, “Why would I believe in something awful when I could believe in something wonderful?” He looked up in contemplation and licked his lips deliberately, relishing this moment with a glint in his eye. As his lips slowly took shape into a wide peaceful grin he gave a barely perceptible nod to the stars and gently pressed the bell.


	2. He Waits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resolution evades Father Andrew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I could end it with the first chapter but I'm not ready to let them off that easy just yet.

Emboldened by his decision, Father Andrew was restless, excited. He massaged his right palm nervously with his left hand. He didn't want to ring again but it had already been a minute. Didn't she come home? His eagerness to see her made him feel a bit creepy. He searched the windows for some light or movement, tried to peek through the front window even though he knew the privacy glass would disclose nothing more than blurry figures of coats and scarves hanging on the rack. 

He thought she would have come home. The whole way back from the bus stop he'd held an image of her face in his mind. Not twelve hours earlier he could feel her breath on his neck, they were so close. Why had he left? Jesus. The symmetry of her face, the way her hair fell concealing her birthmark, her chestnut eyes alight, playful, the delicate wishbone charm on her necklace resting in the delicious concavity between her collarbones.

What sort of fool?... What a coward he'd been. And then the mess he'd made at the bus stop. Twice in one day he'd left her, retreated, fled. His weakness embarrassed him. He had known he would fall in love with her. He'd known his heart, starved of attention and weaned over time to be sated only by the promise of faith, service, sacrifice— he had known it would be too much. He had known for days already, maybe longer. He didn't expect her. Her love had scared him. He'd convinced himself last night was a last supper of sorts and he had fully expected to confess his sins, repent his transgressions, and for Eliza to lose interest. Conquest complete. 

And so Father Andrew had fled. But now, nearly ten minutes at her darkened door, it was him who felt a deep abandonment. He wouldn't leave again. What did they say? “If you're lost it's best to stay in one place and wait for someone to find you?” He would just wait. She would come home. So he sat on the step, the cool concrete a reminder of the chill of oncoming night. He turned the collar of his jacket up, tucking his neck to draw himself into his coat. 

He smarted at the thought of Pam sitting in her armchair, working on her Sudoku in her flannel robe. This would make two nights she'd wait for him to return. He could call but what would he say? “Don't wait up?” He should have appreciated her protective nature... been grateful she'd accepted him into his role at the Parish. Nine years with Father Patrick had them settled into a routine as predictable as the trains. He'd been an old school Priest who'd come to the church honestly. He was 25 when he entered seminary and the way Bishop Franklin told it, Father would have joined even earlier if he could've. 

Father Patrick had been such a good man. A good priest. But from another age, really. When Father Andrew had moved into the Parish house a lingering scent of British Sterling permeated the place. It was noticeable in Father Patrick's office as well and strangely it seemed to waft out of the wonky drawer every time it was opened. With no children of his own, and Pam having none either, her duties as Curate quickly evolved into caretaking for Father Patrick when he first showed signs of slowing. 

Pam's codependency was stifling but well intentioned. The Church has a way of prematurely aging people and Andrew felt this acutely in his first weeks with the Parish. Pam's attentiveness gave her the feel of a school marm or prefect. He laughed to himself recalling the first proper dinner he'd had with Pam. She practically recoiled when he'd suggested they get takeaway and was visibly thrown when he offered her a nightcap. 

“Tea for me, Father, thank you very much. I'll put a kettle on— a little chamomile will settle your stomach for sleep.” All business, Pam was. 

God, how long had he been waiting? He rubbed at his eyes with the heal of his hands and checked his wristwatch. Eleven?! Where would she be? He really should go get his dressing case... Ah, but what if she came back while he was gone? “Stay put,” he thought, “She'll come back. She'll come.” “...I want her to come back,” he whispered as he closed his eyes and leaned back into the doorjamb, “Please come.”


	3. Deliberations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter flashes back to see what we missed before the jump cut to all the thrusting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to offer more action in the next chapter too.

27 hours, 16 minutes, and 10 seconds earlier:

It was remarkable they didn't combust upon contact after all the tension wound up between them. They had stood, practically climbing each other, devouring each other with savage, greedy kisses in the front room for almost five minutes before flushed and out of breath, the pace slowed. 

Father Andrew's mind was spinning and he thought to himself, “If this is it... if this is what we're doing,” finishing aloud, “My God I want to enjoy every inch of you until sunrise.”

Eliza pulled away from him dramatically with a put on look of casual mockery, “Oh. No? I thought this was just a standard Saturday night ride.” Andrew made as if to bite her chin and Eliza pretended to wince as she twisted playfully away from him.

In their frenzied tangling they had landed against the wall and were remarkably still mostly dressed. Their kisses became tender, lingering, like they were drinking nectar from collarbones, palms, temples, and eyelids. He smothered himself with his face in her dark curls, cradling her head in his hand. Couldn't he just stay here forever?

Without another word, the Priest stood away from Eliza as if to take her all in. He reached for her, they linked hands and Eliza began to lead him down the hall. At the bottom of the stairs, Father Andrew stopped abruptly, his hand's resistance signaling to Eliza and she too paused. Her stomach dropped as she let go his hand and as she turned to face him, she prepared herself for his eleventh hour change of heart. 

“I can't...” he started. 

No. No, “I can't keep doing this,” she thought, willing herself not to cry as their eyes met. Eliza exhaled all at once as if trying to extinguish a dozen candles and her lips trembled as a single tear slipped free. 

“Fuck. Fuck!! I'm not going to cry. You can't—” She began to turn away from him.

“Oh God, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry Eliza....” he seized her hand in his and brought it to his lips. He kissed the soft webbing between her thumb and index finger deliberately, once, twice, three times. He coaxed her fingers open and brought her palm to his warm cheek. She stood two steps above him, not making eye contact as he tilted his head searching to meet her eyes. He continued, “I didn't mean I... I meant... I meant I can't go to bed with you as a Father.”

Wounded, she looked at him under furrowed brows, her eyes seeking better explanation. He squeezed her hand and gave a slight nod, a wordless promise, entreating her to let him finish. He moved to take off his jacket. He folded it slowly and draped it over the bannister, his fingertips lingering for just a moment as he smoothed it down. He glanced at her before continuing, checking in, willing her to trust him. He reached up to his clerical collar and with both hands eased it out of place and stowed it in the pocket of the retired jacked. 

He gave a nervous half smile. “I want you to call me by my name. I want you to call me Andrew.” Andrew looked again to Eliza earnestly and began to unbutton his shirt.

Eliza brushed away the trail of her tear. “I'll call you anything you want,” she said, her confidence just returning, “'Andrew,' Mr. Denbigh, ...Prince Albert,” she tipped her head with a wicked wink, “Hell, even Liberace.” She laughed and felt at ease again, ready to play. “But don't do me any favors— you'll take all the fun out of it.” She smiled half mischief, half impatience. “I'm quite handy with buttons, actually...”


	4. Kindling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things heat up in Eliza's (Fleabag's) bedroom.

Fucking hell he was fit. Andrew had taken off his shirt and was kneeling at her feet in his trousers. His hands scaled her long porcelain legs following the contour of her thighs, sliding front to back. He grazed over her arse and grabbed her at her hips, catching her off guard. 

“Fa—“

He stopped and pulled his head away to meet her eyes. He shook his head slowly.

“Right, sorry.”

He rose slowly off his heels and gently buried his face in her knickers. She smelled of coconut oil and sweet musk and he could feel the heat coming off her. He inhaled deeply. Eliza tilted her head back in anticipation. She was enjoying being worshipped but she wanted to pay her respects as well. She reached down and held his head in her hands, her fingers roaming through his hair, over his ears, pausing to rub his earlobes before tenderly collecting a handful of brown silky strands at his crown to coax his face upward. 

He looked at her in awe. She basked in his gaze. “Who are you?”

“Who am I?” she laughed. “I thought it was obvious. I'm an emotionally unavailable, self-centered, restless, opportunistic, deviant sex-addict with a fucked-up family and a diabolical plan to steal your soul.” Eliza smiled. “Who are you?”

“Ah, well... I suppose I'm a lonely, repentant, not-really-recovering-alcoholic determined to punish myself for past offenses by living a life of sacrifice and celibacy under the banner of religion. —Fuck. It sounds pretty awful when I say it out loud.”

“I wouldn't advertise it.”

He laughed. “But you'll have me?” he asked.

“Oh yes, please, fucking yes, right now.”

She crawled backward onto the bed as he undid his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. Eliza lay propped up on her elbows and bit her lip. Her cheeks were flushed. Just the tip of Andrew's tongue escaped his mouth and slowly slid over his lower lip as he held her gaze with confident intensity. As he slid his zipper down and stepped out of his boxer briefs, Eliza gasped with a hand coyly covering her mouth. “Jesus.”

“Yeah, erm, I should have added 'massively well-endowed' to my list, I guess.” Eliza's blush deepened to a rose red. As he climbed onto the bed he gave himself a slow, proud stroke and appraised Eliza in repose. She started to remove her knickers but he wagged his finger at her, teasing, “Now don't do me any favors— you'll take all the fun out of it.” With that he reached into her lace undies around back, and gave an appreciative squeeze of her bum before pulling the knickers down past her toes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing my best to keep the language authentic but I'm kind of making it up as I go along. You'll forgive me if some of it feels a little clunky.


	5. Coming Undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleabag (Eliza) and Priest (Andrew) come together.

“Fuuuuuck me,” Andrew exhaled with some effort, his hands kneading his scalp as she took the whole of him into her mouth again. Her tongue swirled and curled, creating a silky wet vortex that spun him closer and closer to the edge. 

She pulled away from him just then to rest her head on her fist casually. Her hand continued squeezing him from base to tip, massaging him with expert hands. 

“You suppose Pam will be jealous?” Eliza said, giving him a sly sideways look. She stretched the length of him like taffy eliciting a satisfying sensation, awakening him from his decade-long celibacy.

“Fuck, you'd like that wouldn't you?” They both laughed “I've never fancied myself a trophy catch but she has been acting a bit... funny since the fete. Territorial almost.”

“Hmmm. I think I could take her,” Eliza said pretending to consider the match as she brought herself up to lay beside him, her hand still busy at a slow, even tempo.

“She wouldn't stand a chance. Even smashed and bloodied you've been battering my defenses since we met.”

Eliza raised an eyebrow and teased, “I didn't know you were into that sort of thing.”

“Oh, I'll show you what I'm into. Lay back.”

He was unmistakably hard and one hundred percent ready but he knew the wait would bring a sweeter reward. He locked eyes with her as he opened his mouth and his tongue snaked down to the base of her rib cage. Wet, warm, and muscular, his tongue skated over her skin, moving in broad strokes, lapping her breasts. He lowered his face still closer to her skin and pursed his lips to blow softly over the trails he'd left. Eliza shivered, and her shoulders reflexively drew back, her back arching as her skin was made gooseflesh. 

“Andrew.” She called his name as if talking in her sleep.

He made his mouth a circle around one breast and gently rolled the nipple of the other between his thumb and middle finger. 

“Andrew,” she said, quieter this time.

He hungrily took her pale, lissome breast into his mouth. His lips creating a tender vacuum against the bloom of her areola, his tongue cradled her nipple, its skin condensed and firm. His brow furrowed in deep appreciation and a soft hum like a moan rumbled forth, making her skin vibrate with pleasure. 

“I've been fighting— this fire— since the moment I saw you—“ he traveled from her breasts to her neck, punctuating each pause by nipping lightly at her skin, “your tits— your feminist fucking tits— unsettling the peace— tucked just— out— of reach.” His right hand wove through her hair to the nape of her neck and he put his forehead to hers while his left splayed once more across her breast, her nipple hot against his palm. 

“Andrew,” she implored him.

“Yes, Eliza?” he replied breathing deep, sticky breaths. He kissed her and discretely plunged his middle and ring fingers into her deliciously wet mouth, locking eyes with her before his fingers gracefully dove into her mound of satin tendrils. He explored the folds of her, tracing silken figure eights. Taking his time, he drew his first and second fingers up toward her navel in a wide, inverse “v,” gathering the delicate pleats of her inner lips to nestle her clitoris as he slowly rocked his fingers up and down. 

Eliza blinked slowly, taking desperate ragged breaths. “Please...”

“Yes?”

Eliza bit her lip and let out desperate stuttering sound. “Please,” she gasped.

“Okay,” he said calmly, relishing the moment. 

As the length of him sank into her depths, they settled into one another, chest-to-chest, her hand curled around his beautiful neck.


	6. No Refuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Eliza's POV after the bus stop, she steels herself to face her grief.

A slight breeze broke the stillness of the night catching in the trail of her tears as it passed over her face. Eliza was well and truly alone. She had struggled to collect herself after Andrew had walked away. She had briefly considered it might be easier just to stay on the bench forever, to settle into herself, withdraw from the world, and eventually become invisible like every other unloveable woman. 

He was after all, unable to love her. She hadn't been enough.

She clutched the figure of her Mum in her hand still, it's weight on her lap a comfort nested in the gauzy fabric of her dress. She wanted desperately to go home. She needed to give her face a good scrub and soak in a too hot bath. Sometimes she'd submerge herself up to the tender tissue skin below her eyes or hold herself underwater until the scalding gave way to a penetrating ache. It had become a ritual of sorts after Boo died. Eliza would call on her Father and her Godmother and with no one left to help peel away the armor as she replayed each offense endured, it helped to remind her she was in fact not made of stone. She felt each sting, each lance of her Godmother's forked tongue. 

Instead she had walked in the direction of the cafe, planning to get legless on the last of the £4 bottle of Shiraz she'd started the day he'd tried to pry her open with all his questions. He'd left and she'd taken a few desperate swigs before firing off a storm of slutty twat snaps to David. Ever the wordsmith, he'd texted an eggplant, donut, water drop, tongue, and two (two?) peach emojis. A modern Cyrano de Bergerac. 

Once inside the cafe, she withdrew a napkin wrapped parcel from her coat pocket and slipped a few red grapes and a bite of brie to Hilary and Stephanie. “Gifts from the bride and groom,” she told them. “Sorry you couldn't come— you would have loved Jake's bassoon solos.” Eliza grabbed the Shiraz from the cupboard with the wobbly handle under the sink and heaved an defeated sigh. Coming up to stand her eyes took stock of the darkened cafe. She saw Boo everywhere. She felt tears spill over her cheeks and stifled a sob.

She dragged the back of her hand across her wet cheek, straightened her back, and set her shoulders. “Right. Buck up. Smile. Charm. Off we go. We'll be okay.” She fixed her mouth in a line but it faltered as she fought more tears. “That's is, let's go.” She tucked the bottle in her bag, picked up the statue, and locked up the cafe with an aggressive turn of the wrist.


	7. I Didn't Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza confronts her regret.

Eliza wished she'd chosen something a little warmer to wear as she tugged at her dress, willing it to cover her knees. When she chose the flirty red number this morning she'd expected it would be retired to the floor of her bedroom by now, honorably discharged for its service in persuading the Priest. Damn her long legs. She knew her tall, thin frame was considered attractive by most men (and women) but ever since she hit her puberty years she felt nothing but awkward if she was honest. 

She glanced down to the statue sitting solemnly on the bench beside her. Out of habit Eliza blew cigarette smoke away from her golden companion out the corner of her mouth through pursed lips, “Even you look cold,” she said, and took another drag from her cigarette. “We'll have to find you a little cardi if you keep showing off those nips.” Her godmother had rendered the figure of her mother without exaggeration and Eliza coveted the soft curves and healthy fullness of her mother's frame. Even with her prickly personality Claire was blessed with round edges and an ample bosom that made for a welcoming first impression. Eliza always felt she'd been crafted with the wrong tools or perhaps by a poor student of anatomical proportions. Even on her period she bloated in the wrong places.

Boo had loved Eliza's long arms.

“Everything looks good on you. You're like one of those posh shop mannequins— you know, the ones with stony faces like they're holding inna fart... “ Boo tried to make her face a mannequin and jabbed at Eliza with her elbow, pleased with herself. “Oh, and their arm and legs just taper to awful poin'y stubs like they 'aven't got any hands or feet,” she held her hands up, limp at the wrist, the look on her face a mixture of confusion and amusement. “So fucking elegant,” she said, pulling the nicotine from a fag, looking almost resentful. Eliza bowed her head and laughed at the memory. Every compliment from Boo was completely genuine but hilariously fucking off target.

“I'm so sorry Boo.” Eliza's bit her lip. From under her brow she allowed her eyes to rest on the headstone across the gravel path without raising her head. “I never meant to... if I had known you'd... I just— I just didn't know.” Her forehead in anguished knots, Eliza continued, “You were always the better of the two of us. I'm just... I'm a total fucking train wreck and I ruin everything I touch.”

Eliza dropped her head into her hands, her eyes clenched shut failing to stall the tide of anger that threatened to drown her honest regret. “And now you're gone. And Mum's gone. And he's gone. And all I have left is a fucking co-dependent guinea pig and a cafe full of strangers, and I've never felt so alone in my life.” She seemed to reconsider a moment, “You're right. That's not fair to Hilary.”

“I just want to wake up, open the cafe, sell a load of overpriced tomato sandwiches, and stop being such a massive fucking disappointment to everyone in my life. I want to be loved. I want to stop fighting my awful cunt of a Godmother. I want to hug my sister— really hug her. I want him to hold me. I want him to hold me in his arms, Boo... you'd lose your fucking mind over his arms.” A sad laugh escaped her. She tipped the last of the Shiraz into her mouth.

“Do I even deserve it?” Another tear crested her cheekbone and descended to cling to her chin. The question hung in soundless darkness, unanswered. 

“Right.” Eliza wrapped her fingers around the sculpture, gathered her bag and all the determination she could manage. She walked across the cemetery path, bunched her bag into the rough shape of a pillow and lay down in the cool grass. The perfect polish of Boo's headstone hinted at shapes and colors and she searched for Boo in her own gaze. Eliza closed her eyes. She cradled the statue in both hands high into the crook of her neck, and twisted her hips in a fit of mock restlessness. “Now shove over and make some room because I'm not leaving until I have an answer.” Her lips parted. She was utterly spent and drifting closer to sleep now. A smile teased the corner of her mouth, warming the part of her heart she'd kept hidden for too long. 

“Tell me a love story Boo Boo,” she murmured.


	8. Choose Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dad finds Eliza in the cemetery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Dad is so much fun though I'm stymied by how to punctuate his half-dropped sentences. I've named him Philip and revealed Godmother is called Olivia.

“Darling? Eliza... ehm... Eliza, my dear what are you doing here?” Phillip moved to lay his hand on his daughter's shoulder but withdrew. He'd come to expect the unexpected from his youngest daughter and out of habit had begun to treat her as though she was mildly contagious. He didn't know what to say and nervously scanned the cemetery for onlookers. He gingerly laid aside the improvised garden bouquet and checked his wristwatch. It was still absurdly early. He'd left the house before it was light so as not to stir Olivia. 

They'd both celebrated late into the night but Philip had promised Margaret he'd come see her after the party. Besides, between Olivia's penchant for expensive champagne and the cannabis her interesting Shaman-friend from Norway had shared, he had at least an hour until she'd wake to begin at the wheel. Olivia had become evangelical about her new works in ceramics. She'd said, 'the irresistible sensuality of wet clay was like a fountain of youth and professed to regular orgasms at the wheel.” Philip avoided the studio. He couldn't stand her slapping and pounding that poor piece of dirt. 

He focused again on his beautiful daughter and his heart muddied, a combination of pride, nostalgia, and concern shifting the focus of his eyes. Eliza stirred and Philip waited. 

“Dad?” she said, wincing slightly at the offensive sunlight. Her back ached.

“Dear what are you... you've not changed your—.“ His eyes caught the glimmer of the bronze figure as Eliza rubbed wearily at her hairline with her free hand. “Oh. Ehm.” He looked away and she quickly stowed the statue in her bag. 

“Dad—“ Eliza prepared to defend herself.

“No, darling. Let's not. Your Mother... ,” he squinted at sky at the thought of her, “She would have... she's more yours... so... yes.” He mimed a tiny key turning at his lips and they shared a decisive smile. “Have you? Were... did you— sleep—?... all night?” He gave her his hand and helped her to her feet.

She tried to joke, “You'd be hard pressed to find a cheaper spot in London.” He chuckled. “And then there's the fresh flowers...” It dawned on Eliza all of a sudden that her Father's presence in the cemetery was just as unlikely as hers. “You weren't?— you... Are the—,” she bent down to retrieve the bouquet, “Are these for Mum?”

Philip fidgeted. “I told her... I— I needed to... you know she loved...” he lost the words to finish. 

“Dad, I—.”

His face was solemn as he met her eyes, taking a deep breath. “I never stopped loving your mother. She was my best friend. And when you girls got older, and Olivia... and... you... well, feelings... changing... it was... I needed— her... advice. I didn't know what to do with you.” 

A wounded look transformed Eliza's face. “I just need you to love me, Dad.” All her feelings of grief, of loss, abandonment and shame threatened to overtake her. “I just need you to love ME. To love me... more. To choose me.” she admitted, her eyes beseeching him. 

“It's not a contest, darling. Love isn't finite. I love you.... and your sister. I love your mother. And I... well—? I— Olivia.” He reached for her hand and his arm was still while his fingers nervously plucked the air begging her to accept what he could offer.“ Come talk to your mother with me. She'll love the bit about you coaxing me down from the attic like a nervous bride.”

She yielded to his gesture and linked her arm in his. They began walking to the foggy East lawn where her mother was lain to rest. “Shall I do a voice for the little mouse?” she teased. “Kind sir,” she implored him dramatically, “I seem to have been caught in this... friendly trap, here.” She laughed at his perennially fuzzy logic.

Philip cleared his throat and raised his voice a few octaves, “Say good man, could you help a mouse out?” 

In the distance a quiet man in his forties exited his car with a budget bouquet from Tesco. He tucked a handkerchief in his coat pocket, scanned the cemetery, and set off toward an impressive marble mausoleum.


	9. A Chat with the Ex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew is visited by Eliza's old standby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've gotta love Harry. He's a little like a female Boo. And you know he'd be a big fan of Brene. ;)

“Father Andrew?” A lanky shadow fell over the sleeping Priest. Harry removed his earbuds and put the pram in park. Suzie gave a small cry, feigning protest from under the canopy and stirred the Priest from his sleep as his eyebrows came together and he cracked an eye open.

“Oh, ehm Harry,” he said, finally coming fully out of his dream. He gave a little shake of his head and tried to sound casual, pasting on a crooked smile “Hello.”

“Are you alright, Father? Were you... sleeping just now?” 

“No, no. No, ehm I had just closed my eyes when you came by. I'm afraid I'm still a bit worn out after the wedding last night.” Andrew tugged at his coat and stretched his legs. Jesus, what time was it?

“Yeah, sure— Oh! Uh—,” Harry looked cartoonishly apologetic, “I'd offer you a hand, Father, but I just applied a new lanolin cream and I'm still a bit tacky. You wouldn't believe how dry my skin is with changing all these nappies.” He spread the fingers of his hands and stretched them away from his body, examining them, “Elaine says I'm being vain but to be honest I barely recognize myself anymore.”

Father Andrew choked on a little laugh but quickly nodded, trying on a look of solidarity, “Oh... sure, yeah. Totally.” He came to a stand and became acutely self-conscious as he searched the street for faces of his parishioners. No witnesses save Harry. No fox. 

“It looks like someone must have had a late night of her own,” Harry said, his tone a bit judgmental but also familiar as if he and the Priest were in on a secret.

“Mm?”

“Oh, yeah, it's just I, ehm, She,” he corrected himself, “She always puts out a saucer of milk before she gets to bed. For Mr. Ewing's cat... But it's not out,” Harry said, pointing rhetorically at the bare doorstep. 

“Sure. Sure.”

"Poor thing, Mr. Giggles... it's a shame his tail can't grow back." Harry seemed somber, briefly lost in a memory. And then cheerfully and full of curiosity, "Do you like cats, Father?"

"Noooo," Andrew sought to change the subject. "I'm allergic," he said, shrugging his shoulders. He wasn't. Andrew clapped his hands together, giving Harry a start, and his mind raced as he gently wrung his hands. "I should probably—."

“Say, I'm headed in the direction of the church if you'd like to walk with me? Normally I spend this time listening to Brene Brown on audiobook or reciting my mantras so I'd be glad for the company.” The look on Harry's face was genuine.

“Ah, well... sure. Why not?” Andrew turned to look back at Eliza's door. He would come back after a shower and change of clothes. He'd wait for her.

Harry continued as he released the brake of the pram,“You just wouldn't believe the messages girls hear about their bodies these days, Father. That's why it's so important for me be a model of body positivity."

“Mm, yeah. Of course.” Father Andrew slipped into Priest mode as Harry campaigned for rethinking modern standards of beauty and decried shaming women for 'living their authentic selves.' He'd waited all night for Eliza. And ten years before that. He would survive another hour.


	10. Reciprocity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father Andrew returns to the Parish house to get cleaned up. It doesn't work. ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hat tip to the LSS crew. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Father Andrew could hear the tap running and something upbeat on the radio as he nudged the door open. He couldn't handle a cross examination from Pam in this state. He closed the door gently and peeked around the corner into the kitchen.

“Hnnna uhnna mmmuh 'heaven's abo—ve, out where the lightning' spl—uh the eeeee,” Pam clumsily sang to herself in a mumble as she dried the dishes with a tea towel. Even channeling Bonnie Tyler Pam was a study in restraint. One leg danced enthusiastically to the rhythm, tapping and shuffling, while the rest of her body stood stock straight as a Beefeater.

It was only after he'd made it inside his quarters that Andrew was able to exhale. In the kitchen Pam turned off the tap, cocking her head to pick up any sound. He thought he could get to the bathroom if he took five enormous paces and he raced across the room to put one more door between himself and Pam. She wouldn't dare knock once the shower was on.

Andrew turned the shower knob on full blast and quickly undressed. In his haste he neglected to unbutton his shirt and got tangled momentarily, extracting his head with some difficulty.

“Bastard! Jesus Christ! Oh fuck!” he nearly crashed into the toilet as he hopped about the tiny lavatory whisper shouting, his shirt half inside out. His hands briefly fumbled with his belt but then his trousers were down. Exasperated, he took down his boxer briefs in an almost theatrical bow, then stripped off his thin, black socks and practically jumped into the shower.

The spray hit him and his pulse slowed. He grabbed a bar of soap and began scrubbing at his groin, building up a lather as his hand traveled in widening circles through his dark pubic hair and up to his navel. His mind wandered. He closed his eyes and pushed his head into the stream of hot, rushing water. It pummeled the crown of his head and cascaded over his ears, momentarily insulating him from the moment in real time. Tributaries snaked over his still features, spilling over his lower lip and trickling down his chin.

He was getting dizzy as the small room filled with steam and he reached out to plant the palm of his right hand flat against the tile wall. The wet slap of it elicited an involuntary response in him. His body flooded with heat and blood rushed from every corner of his body to congregate below his waist. He let the soap fall to the shower floor, rudely clanging against the cast iron and lazily zig zagging to rest near the drain.

“Jesus.”

Andrew wrapped his hand around the base of his penis and squeezed in an upward motion, stroking the length of himself. His fingers took hold where his groin met his shaft and he squeezed roughly, once, twice like he was priming a pump. He ran his hand up and down, up and down, a foamy lather building at the base of his cock. His head tilted back in pleasure. The walls fell away like dominoes and he was back in her flat, in her shower the morning of wedding.

> She stood facing away from him as he admired the soft landscape of her shoulders, the curve of her lower back, struck dumb by the gift of her. Her hands were casually combing shampoo through her dark hair, the lather a dense sea of bubbles.
> 
> “Are you just going to stand there while I give myself a rinse?” Eliza laughed. Andrew was shaken out of his stupor.
> 
> “Right. Right, sorry,” he smiled, stepped closer, and snaked an arm around her waist, drawing her into him. He began kissing a path from the slope of her shoulder moving steadily inland.
> 
> “Where did you go? Just now?” He could tell she was smiling.
> 
> His head popped up, “Wha—?” He hadn't recognized her line of inquiry.
> 
> She turned her head to catch his eyes with hers. “You seemed to slip away for a moment just then.”
> 
> “Oh fuck you,” he laughed, catching on at last. “I was just admiring your incredible arse.” Eliza could feel his erection rising against her backside, insistent, seeking an opportunity... ready to play.
> 
> “Well don't get any ideas. Between your tongue and my loofah I've had two baths 'round back already this morning. If my arsehole were any cleaner you might see yourself in its reflection.”
> 
> Andrew made a play for her sympathy, “You'd deny a man one of life's little pleasures?” His left hand pinched her nipple tenderly and his palm grazed over it, the skin tightening in anticipation.
> 
> “Please. I'm wicked, not stupid.” Eliza laughed.
> 
> “Then what would you have me do with myself?” he asked. He took her earlobe between his teeth and breathed slowly, “There must be something you want?”
> 
> Eliza closed her eyes, lost in the sound of the water running, the sensation of his breath against her cheek, his chest against her back— she swore she could feel his heart beating. She opened her eyes slowly and a devious smiled curled the corner of her mouth.
> 
> “Kneel.”

He stifled a moan and his hand climbed the tiles as his body stiffened from his arse to his eyebrows, evolution's reflexive last grab at the transient pleasure of orgasm. Out of breath, his forearm came to rest on the wall. His fingers conceded their grip and he rinsed his left hand lazily in the warm water. He was drunk with the memory of her. He needed to see her.

Three brusque knocks interrupted his thoughts. “Father?! Father?! There's someone here to see you. Father, it's about last night's wedding... we have a situation.” Jesus. Pam had two settings, 'mad for the Almighty,' and 'pious panic.'

“I'll be right there, Pam, just give me a minute.” He ran the towel roughly over his hair as he puzzled over his mystery visitor. He rushed into his clothes and out of habit reached to his nightstand for his Bible. In that moment he suddenly remembered. “Oh fuck.” He'd stowed his Bible in his dressing case after the wedding. ...The dressing case he'd kicked into the street and left before taking off to Eliza's. His eyes cast upward in hopeful reverence while he winced in nervous embarrassment. “I'm really pushing it, aren't I?”


	11. Challenge accepted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza finds the dressing case and takes it as an invitation for the last round of "who'll win Father Andrew's heart."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the constant back and forth in POV. I kind of love it but suspect it may be somewhat hard to follow. Hopefully it's apparent that I'm slowly drawing them back to a shared timeline. E/A confront each other in the next chapter. And if you'll give me a little bit of time to throw a little backstory in, I promise fireworks thereafter. :D

“Are you sure... you don't... it won't... darling?” Philip signaled and pulled the car over to the curb. 

“Dad, I'm fine, really. I don't mind the walk. You've got a flight to catch in three hours and you need him to sign the certificate. Don't waste time dropping me home. You know she'd never let it pass if I kept her from your honeymoon in Santorini.” This last bit was true. It was also true that she couldn't bear the thought of seeing Andrew at the church. 

“And you haven't heard from Claire?” Philip was ticking all the boxes, taking a personal inventory of his daughters before embarking on his trip, making small talk.

“Oh, stop worrying about her. She's probably cozied up with Klare, bare-arsed on an reindeer hide rug in some fabulous ice castle right now.”

“Oh! Eliza!” 

"Dad, she's fine. I've met him. He's a really nice guy... really, he really is. Anyone would be a step up from arsehole Martin, but Klare is perhaps the polar opposite of that soggy, bearded pervert. And you should see his teeth.” Eliza ran her index finger over her own teeth in demonstration. “They're practically iridescent.”

“Finland.” Philip and Eliza said in unison with an exaggerated air of contempt. They laughed, enjoying their two minds being so alike.

For a minute they just sat with each other. Eliza fussed with the leather fob on her bag and tried to be thankful for this time with her Dad without allowing thoughts of awful Olivia to spoil their camaraderie. Philip could see so much Margaret in Eliza. It was bittersweet when the curtain fell between them; when he surrendered his great shame of needing the love of someone other than her mother, and she relinquished the rage of watching her mum reduced to a ghost of herself... then ash in a bottle. It was this resemblance to Margaret that made him awkward around Eliza. It made him stumble, to startle at the sight of her sometimes. It was hard to face his daughter and his wife in one body. 

“And you? You'll be...? Alright?”

Eliza gave her Father a quick peck on the cheek and opened the door. She stepped from the car and leaned down into his view before closing the door, “I love you, Dad. Have a fabulous trip.”

“I love you too, darling.”

Philip drove off and Eliza pursed her lips at the corner of her mouth, aiming a quick breath at her fringe. What was it about grief that made her hair look unbelievable? As she crossed the street her eye was drawn to a dark shape beneath a parked car. Just the sewer grate? No. Stepping onto the sidewalk, Eliza pinched the rear hem of her dress in a vain attempt to keep her arse out of sight as she bent down beside the car and searched by touch for the mystery item. 

A breeze freed the dress from her grip, and she cursed.“Oh, fuck.” Game to try one last time, she dropped down into an awkward squat, her long legs akimbo. Traveling in a wandering semi-circle, her hand patted the ground until she set upon it, a case of some sort. She withdrew the case- a modest, flat sort of case, not quite a briefcase, not quite a garment— Eliza dropped the dressing case like had bitten her and clumsily fell back on her bum. She had seen Andrew walk into the darkness with a case— that case. 

Almost in slow motion, with a combination of timidity and suspicion she lifted her face to peer up at the sky under a single skeptical eyebrow. She looked like a Big Brother contestant looking for the hidden camera.

She addressed his God like she would a stingy barman, “You're shitting me, right?” 

The leather exterior was scuffed at the corner and felt cold, almost damp. She looked left then right like a cartoon criminal before releasing the brass clasp and unfolding the case like a treasure map. She stared at the pristine ivory linen and slipped her hand tenderly into the red satin-lined sleeve of Father Andrew's vestment. As she fingered the many needlework crosses she recalled their shopping expedition and the warm unease of excitement in her belly as she watched him parade in and out of the dressing room.

Eliza had expected just the sight of Father Andrew in his ceremonial robe to sour her attraction to him like adding lemon to milk. Seeing the man you desire in a flamboyantly decorated potato sack would desexualize him... Sean Connery in a ladies' nightgown. She had been perplexed when it had a different effect. She was able to find the lines of him in the yards of fabric, to appreciate the luxurious materials, and to see the ease it put him at to wear his faith so boldly. She admired his courage to believe. She longed for a similar sense of purpose that would consume her, steer her, perhaps save her. As a witness to his calling, Eliza's attraction had been multiplied.

She couldn't imagine facing him after last night. She set her mouth in a stubborn line as she folded the case and fastened it closed. She stared at the case. “I'm not taking it back to him.” She looked straight up at the clouds and argued with herself as much as she did Him, “He can come get it himself. I'm not... no... I'm not playing. I don't even believe in you,” she said with a childish flair.

She clapped a bit of dirt off her hands, stood, and began to walk in the direction of the cafe. She'd have to feed Hilary and Stephanie before she popped home for a shower. But not even nine paces from the case, she stopped and marched angrily back. She snatched the case from the ground and attacked the air with it like a hot fire iron as she shouted.

“You can't drop paintings off walls like some sort of creepy poltergeist and then leave this case here like a giant fucking breadcrumb!” Eliza was yelling now. 

An elderly woman shuffled past Eliza protectively clutching a caramel colored terrier close to her chest, its leash redundant. "Ssshhh Stewart, shhhh."

“You!” she continued accused him when the woman rounded the bend. Her eyes narrowed, “I read your book... Mmm-hm, okay, parts of it. But for a guy who's big on the abundance of love, you're a bit of a hypocrite when it comes to your own. This is—” she collected herself, “This is my heart. You broke— my heart. What kind of a God...? She shook her head woefully and laughed at herself. “Right, I've traded an imaginary friend for an imaginary foe. Okay, then. Last round: winner takes all.” Eliza tipped her head in a gentlemanly gesture of sportsmanship, "May the best woman win." She tucked the case under her arm and waved at an oncoming car. “Taxi!”


	12. Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew and Eliza meet again.

Coming around to the front of the Parish house, the taxi stopped just as Father Andrew turned to go inside. Eliza handed the driver £15 and paused before opening the door. She looked down at the dressing case in her lap and closed her eyes. 

“Right,” she said and stepped out of the car.

Andrew's hand was on the doorknob when she spoke. “Excuse me, Father?” He felt a flush of warmth rush down his back. Andrew didn't turn to face her and she bit her lip nervously. “Father? Listen, I know you said—“

“Please. Stop.”

Eliza felt as though she'd been shoved by and invisible hand, but she wasn't going to give up that easily. “Andrew, look I know you said not to come by...”

“I did.” Andrew wanted to say more but the words were rushing at him too fast to process. He still hand't turned to face her. 

Eliza was desperate to know what he was thinking. What was he thinking? She held her ground, one hand resolutely gripping the case, the other swept her hair from her face. She cast her eyes upward in frustration, “You're really not making this easy,” she said to Him. Her eyes conceded the argument and drifted back, landing on Andrew's face, her inhale hitching in surprise.

“I'm sorry.” Andrew's gaze traveled the contours of Eliza's face taking in the flush high in her cheeks, the way her lips were parted just slightly. Her lips. “—I was trying to find the right words.”

“Sometimes the words don't come easily,” Eliza said with a half smile. “I found this,” she said. She shrugged her shoulders and extended her hand to offer him the case. “It's a bit heavy-handed as leave-behinds go...” They shared a laugh that eased the tension as his hand covered hers. She didn't let go of the case. His thumb caressed her hand. 

“Forgive me,” he whispered. It was a request and a confession.

“Oh, I don't know that I'm qualified. ..Usually that's His job, isn't it?”

“Yeah,” he nodded to himself, glad to hear the sarcasm in her voice. “We had a chat.”

“Did you? I had a sort of chat of my own.” She smiled smugly.

“Did you?” Andrew was genuinely surprised. 

“Yeah,” Eliza didn't elaborate but cocked her head to the sky and gave a conspiratorial wink.

Andrew watched her. “Wait, you're not...? 

“Oh, no. Hunh-uh. No, I still think organized religion is mostly rubbish meant to conveniently reduce the complexities of human experience into simple good vs. evil paradigms, spread shame, and sell a soft-focus version of death as a means of distraction from mankind's utter lack of purpose.” Eliza smiled a cheshire grin.

“Oh. Good. Yeah.” 

“But I like that you believe in a meaningful existence.”

Andrew smiled and gestured to the garden. “Sit with me?”

“I didn't bring any G&T.” 

“Don't need it.”

Andrew and Eliza made their way to the back garden, both unsure of what might come next. Andrew laid his case at the foot of the garden bench and sat. He felt conspicuous in the daylight, alone with Eliza. Without a drink to keep his hands occupied, he struggled to find a place for them. Eliza was exceedingly aware of the distance she kept between them as she sat beside him. 

“I've been thinking about last night—.”

“Andrew—.” Their words collided. He smiled and his hands spread across his lap, the last finger of his hand inched wider as if it could sneak away independently to be reunited with hers. He longed to hold some small piece of her. 

“You. You go first,” he said.

“There's a lot I haven't told you.” The words held in the air, seeking permission to continue.

“Yeah. Me too.”

“I don't want to hide myself from you... I want you to know me— I want to know you. More than an electric glance at a dinner table, or a late night chat in the dark... more than frantic tongue wrestling in a confessional, or as some sort of test of your faith— I just... I just want you to know that I can't just walk away from you. It's not that simple. It doesn't have to be that simple.” 

His pulse raced. “Nothing about this is simple.”

Eliza reached up to cradle his face in her hand but stopped, the sound of centuries old bells sounding a thunderous clang. “I—“ The bells rang again. “I just—“ Clang! “Oh come on!” Clang! “He's not playing fair,” she looked at Andrew for some morsel of sympathy. Andrew tried to fight his laughter but even a hand across his mouth couldn't keep him composed as the bells continued to ring rudely, seven, now eight, and finally nine times. “Nine times,” Eliza looked at the sky. “Nice touch.”

“He's not subtle.” Andrew smirked and closed the space between them as he took her hand in his. “Listen, I have a funereal consult with Mr. Abbotts in twenty minutes.” When Eliza cast her eyes to her lap, he tilted his head to stay in her sight, willing her to be patient. “Can I come to your flat tonight? ...I'd like to come. I can be there at six? And we can talk?”

“Yeah,” she took a deep breath, her lungs fresh air and hope filling her lungs. “Okay. Six then.” Andrew gave Eliza's hand a squeeze before standing. He picked up his case and had nearly disappeared around the hedge but stopped to look back at her. He licked his lips and he smiled. 

“Six.”


	13. The Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza prepares for her talk with Father Andrew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My punctuation is abysmal- I tend to write the way I speak and so far haven't invested the time in having it reviewed for errors. Be kind?

Eliza dashed home and popped in the shower, scrubbed her teeth, and generously applied coconut oil to her parched skin. As if inhabited by Harry she collected orphaned tea cups, swept up the crumbs of an emotionally-motivated crisp binge, properly folded and stored two loads of washing, investigated and resolved at least three separate funky smells, and walked to the shop to pick up a bottle of wine. 

In the last year she'd tried to make amends with Fahad, the Pakastani widower who owned the corner shop. Bit by bit, by Cadbury and Boost bar, in dreadful sunflower seeds that went straight into the bin and countless mid-priced wines she repaid her earlier thefts and made her apologies. Mr. Abidi had eventually become a regular at the cafe and was especially fond of Stephanie, spoiling her with bits of roti or leftover biryani. The hamster had gotten quite fat off his scraps but Mr. Abidi always brought a pack of Gold Leafs for Eliza so she let it slide.

When she finally sat down feeling as though she'd prepared all in need of preparing, she looked at the clock. Three eighteen. 

“Two hours and forty-two minutes? Fuck!” Eliza said aloud. “That's it.” She pushed herself out of the armchair and walked to the kitchen. Grabbing a day-old bottle of wine by the neck, she yanked the cork free with her teeth and reached into the cupboard. Eliza withdrew two mismatched glasses to the counter and spilled wine into them. The glasses clinked as she gathered them, and she took a cigarette from the pack before climbing the stairs to her bedroom, the cigarette unlit, clamped between her lips. At the foot of her bed, she crossed her legs at the ankles and slid herself to the floor, careful not to spill her drinks as she folded herself into a seated position. 

Eliza dug in her pocket for a book of matches and took a deep breath. She leaned forward over her the drinks and balanced on one knee to pulled open a dresser drawer. Her hand slid over the lip of the drawer and reached to the bottom-front, her fingertips drawing out a thin piece of paper. Eliza propped the photo against the foot of the dresser and placed one glass of wine to its side.

“Hi Mum,” Eliza said to the woman in the photograph. She struck a match and lit her cigarette, taking a long drag. “I'd offer you one but it seems in poor taste,” she said with a wan smile. The smile faded and Eliza looked down. Everything about her softened. “Mum? “ Eliza said quietly. Tears began to well in her eyes and her mouth trembled. The delicate features of her face prepared for the flood, a hint of red surfacing high in her cheeks and across her nose.

Tears rolled down her face on the diagonal as Eliza rested her head in one hand. She took a drink of her wine and a tear slipped over her lips to mingle with the stale red grapes, imparting a clean, saline aftertaste.

In the photograph, Margaret sat almost reclined in a stunning gold jumpsuit. She embodied full glamor, light catching on the sequins of her kimono-style sleeves, a massive ivory leather belt gratuitously fastened at her waist. A glass of champagne aloft in one hand, an upturned cigarette glowing in the other, the picture had been taken mid-exhale. Margaret's head was tilted back, her eyelids heavy, and she blew a sexy stream of smoke skyward through her delicate lips. 1988. What a fox.

“The thing is, I love him. And it's madness, and impossible, but I know he loves me. ...I think after all this time— I was so angry when you died. I'd walk through crowds of people smiling, laughing, going about their day. And I'd wonder, 'Do they know my mother is gone? Do they know I can barely breathe? ...That I'm drowning— constantly pulled under by my broken beating heart?' If I hadn't had Boo...” her words stalled. She pushed through her anguish. “Mum, I've done a lot of awful things— terrible things. Unforgivable things. And I'm alone. You're gone, and Boo is gone. But somehow I got another chance and I can't just walk away. I can't bear to lose him.” She sniffled.

“Do you think I'm mad?” Eliza laughed. She wiped the tears from her face and raised her wine glass as if making a toast. “I suppose asking a photo of your dead mum for advice on how to arm-wrestle God for the love of a Catholic priest sort of answers that question, doesn't it?”

Eliza picked up the photograph and brought it to rest face down high on her chest. She positioned and repositioned her chin tenderly atop her hand, hugging the photo with eyes closed. “I miss you, Mum. Every day I miss you.”

Eliza drank the last of her wine and put out her cigarette in the glass. She drank her mother's wine. She checked the time. Five fifty-one. She tucked the photograph into her back pocket, collected the glasses, and took another drag off her cigarette to brace herself. She closed her eyes and brought to mind the image of her mother, radiating happiness, effusing confidence; at the top of her game. Eliza looked upward as she opened her eyes, daring to be brave. 

“Let's do this, shall we old man?”


	14. Meeting Margaret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza begins to let Andrew in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm crap with knowing the proper placement of punctuation... especially with extended bits of dialogue. Please ignore any mistakes.

Eliza paced the flat until 5:56 and then sat in the foyer, nervously fingering the delicate gold necklace at her collarbone. At 6:02 Andrew was two minutes late. It felt like a lifetime. When he rang the bell, she tugged gently at her jumper to straighten it and took a deep breath. 

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah, of course. Yeah.” Eliza took a few steps back to allow Andrew into the foyer and closed the front door.

“So ehm, did you open the cafe today?”

“No... no, I spent the day obsessively cleaning my flat, trying on every kit in my closet, and rehearsing a little speech to convince you that loving me and loving God aren't mutually exclusive— You?” Eliza tried to sound light and silly but it was a tough sell.

He laughed a little nervously. “Sounds like a long day.”

“Bit of an understatement. How was yours?”

“Well, sort of the same, really. Only Pam helped me pick out my outfit.” He smiled.

“Stop.” Eliza said and pulled a face of mock disgust. 

“No, really. She says I'm a 'Fall' ...color-wise... so she really pushed the burgundy jumper.” Andrew shrugged playfully. “D'you like it?” He smiled and gave a glance to the interior of the flat. “So you think we could sit down?”

“Yeah, yes, of course.”

They walked into the flat and he took a seat on the couch. He spoke as he settled in, “I don't want to seem rude given I invited myself over, but you said something about a 'speech'? He looked up at Eliza. She stood opposite him, holding him in her gaze with an intense focus as she fiddled with her fingers. “You're not going to sit?”

“Oh no, I— I'd feel much better...”

Andrew interrupted, “It's a bit...” his head tick tocked, “deja vu-y isn't it?” Without realizing it, they had each taken up their place as if recreating the night before the wedding. They both laughed nervously. “Listen—”

“Shut up,” Eliza said unexpectedly.

“Sorry? What?”

“If you keep talking, I can't tell you— Damn! I nearly forgot.” Before Andrew could blink, Eliza pivoted and dashed up the stairs. He heard footsteps above, a door slammed, and Eliza came clamoring down the stairs and back to her spot a few feet in front of him. Her arms were full and almost as if she had forgotten the items were there, she abruptly stepped to him and clumsily unloaded them onto his lap. 

“What—?” Eliza reached back to his lap and picked out a heavy, gilded sculpture.

“Hold out your hands,” she instructed, and Andrew complied. Eliza placed the figure in his cupped hands gently. “That's my Mum. Well... sort of. It's a portrait of my Mum.”

Andrew carefully turned the figure in his hands as if appraising it. “She's beautiful, Eliza.” 

“I know. Her tits look amazing but breast cancer's what got her,” she said matter of factly.

“Did you make this?” Andrew asked.

“Oh no. I stole it.”

Andrew laughed. “What?” 

“From Olivia. Yeah, see she was my Mum's student before she became my... Stepmother. My Mum was a teacher at University of the Arts... mainly oil paints and life drawings...but her students had all sorts of specialities.” Eliza looked at Andrew as if sizing him up. “If I tell you something, you'll promise to never repeat it?”

“My word is my bond,” replied Andrew.

“Alright. Never?” It was both a question and a command. “To anyone.” Andrew nodded solemnly.

“Alright.” Eliza took a deep breath. She grimaced as she exorcised the words in one rushed confession, “Olivia is incredibly talented and I actually quite like most of her portraits.” Andrew stifled a laugh. “You can't tell anyone. You promised.” Andrew shook his head and fought back more laughter.

“Olivia made the sculpture. She was close in age to my Mum when she enrolled and they became friends. ...You know she was our Godmother first, right?” Andrew began to respond but Eliza carried on, “So she was 'round the house a lot when we were girls. Neither Claire or I really liked her... she didn't exactly exude warmth even then, but we liked Dad's jokes about her 'exotic' fashion and she made Mum laugh.” Eliza's eyes softened and she seemed to drift into a memory.

Eliza snapped back to her narrative, “When Mum got sick, Olivia wouldn't let us alone. She practically moved into the house and took it upon herself to play Mum's part. She was an awful, martyrish understudy, and not terribly convincing as a maternal figure. Claire or I would visit and she'd scold us for keeping Mum up late or for leaving dishes in the sink. She told us we made extra work for Dad and that we should be more helpful. Once—! Once, she lectured us both when she found we'd spent the night in Mum's bed. She said we behaved like children... that our selfishness was 'juvenile' and we'd wore Mum out.” 

“Our Mum was dying.” A tear raced down Eliza's cheek. “...And we were desperate to keep hold of her. In her last days we were terrified she'd go if we left.” Eliza wiped the tears from her cheek with the back of her hand and collected herself, standing straighter just slightly. “Olivia never misses an opportunity to make herself a model above all others. Claire and I were grasping at the hours we still had with Mum. We were beginning to grieve the immeasurable loss ahead... and Olivia was convinced she was doing it better.”

“Jesus. What a cunt.”

Laughter erupted from Eliza. “Right?! Such a cunt!” Eliza reached into her back pocket and handed Andrew the glossy photo. He studied it closely. 

“God. You look just like her. I would have loved to meet her.”

“Well... now you have.” Eliza smiled. “Andrew, this is my Mum, Margaret. Mum, this is the one I told you about.” Andrew lifted his head and smiled. He looked down, the elegant sculpture in one hand, the nostalgic photo in the other. 

“It's a genuine pleasure to meet you, Margaret. You've got quite the daughter.”


	15. Crime and Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza lets Andrew see what's behind the curtain. He learns about Boo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I did a few drafts but they just didn't feel right. I think I worked the kinks out. I hope.

“Alright, alright. There's no need to kiss-arse— though hers really was fantastic.” Eliza laughed as she took the photo and sculpture from Andrew and placed them on the mantle. She withdrew another item from the shrinking collection on Andrew's lap, this time a worn pack of Marlboro Gold cigarettes. Holding it in both hands against her chest. “This is it. This is a big one.”

“Cigarettes?" Andrew asked, mildly surprised.

“No, no, it's just a box. My best friend Boo used to smoke these.” As she spoke she opened the pack and carefully tipped it to dispense a miniature waterfall of gold chain and charms into her palm.

“You never told me you had a best friend,” Andrew said with a hint of sadness.

“I couldn't. I mean— She was my best friend. I guess she still is, really. She and I opened the cafe together, it was our cafe.” Eliza looked down at the necklaces in her hand and poked among the cluster as if picking her favorite candy from a mixed bag. She lifted a silver plated “A” charm on a simple chain from the pile. “Of course 'Boo' wasn't her given name. 'Boo' came from 'B,' and 'B' came from 'Abi,' 'Abi' being short for 'Abigail.' 'A' for 'Abigail.'”

“This one was a gift from her first boyfriend. She didn't even like the poor sod but she always wore it. She was sentimental as hell.” Eliza let the necklace slip back into her palm and removed a long, gold, double chain from the tangle, coaxing the attached charms out of the shrinking heap. “I don't know the meaning behind all of these,” Eliza mumbled as she fingered a gold bezel-set bauble, holding it up to examine it before moving to the second charm. “But this one, this is St. Francis... Boo had Hilary blessed as a precautionary measure.” 

“Ahhh.”

“Yeah, he's one of your boys,” she said with a laugh and handed it to Andrew.

“Mm.” Andrew smiled and tolerated her teasing. “Did you steal these things of hers too? D'you still talk to her?”

“No. No, nothing like that. I do talk to her, but...” Eliza still struggled to say the words aloud.

“You had a falling out?” Andrew ventured.

“No, it's...”

“She moved away?” He continued guessing.

“No, well. She...” Eliza was trying to get the words out.

“Did she sleep with your boyfriend?” 

Eliza's face fell and they both went quiet. “Boo would never do that. It was me— I slept with her boyfriend. And she's gone now.”

“Gone?” 

“She died.” Eliza took a breath in an effort to steady herself. She would get through this part— he needed to know everything. “She killed herself— because of what I'd done. She was in total despair that Jack would cheat on her... she didn't even know it was me, and she stepped off the kerb into the bicycle lane... she thought she'd break a finger.” Eliza's confession poured out of her at last. 

“My God. I'm so sorry, Eliza.” Andrew noticed that her fist was clenched around the last bits of jewelry and her face looked as though she wanted to disappear. She seemed all of a sudden smaller somehow. He carefully removed the last few items from his lap and relocated them to the floor before standing to take her in his arms. The dam broke, Eliza heaved, her face folded to reveal her anguish, and she began to sob into his neck.

“I...” she unsuccessfully began, “I'm just so goddamn angry!” Eliza paused to cry a bit more. 

“It's okay to be angry.” Andrew's arms pulled Eliza into a tight embrace. He wanted to contain her grief, or at least help her to bridle it and make it more manageable. He wanted to ease her pain.

“She was the best thing I had in my life. After Mum died I gave all the love I had left to Boo and— and she was the only thing keeping me together. My father could barely look at me, my Godmother was a bloody harpy, Claire had awful Martin and I... well I suppose I had Harry, but that's not saying much. I might as well have been alone, really. Harry thought he loved me but really he just hated to be alone.” The timing of Eliza's breathing was returning to normal.

Andrew held Eliza at arms length and struggled to get her to make eye contact. “Listen.”

“No,” Eliza said. She looked as though she might begin crying again.

“Listen. You have to stop this. Take a deep breath. Sit with me.” Andrew tried to lead Eliza to the couch but she took one step and crumpled to the floor with her back against the couch.

“No. You don't understand. I gave my whole heart to Boo. It was bruised and battered and didn't work all that well, but she took care of it. She took care of me. And in one stupid, drunken, forgettable night, I broke her heart in return. And she's never coming back.” Eliza sobbed.

“Eliza. I'm well and truly sorry that Boo is gone. I can't imagine what heartbreak you must feel. But you must know you're not responsible for her death, right?” Andrew was desperate to help her free herself of her misplaced guilt. 

Eliza was quiet for a moment and when she spoke she struggled to get the words out. “I hurt the people I love. It's what I do and I'm really good at it. I punish the people I love by pushing them away or building a wall between us. When Boo died I felt like my last chance to be loved died too... it just... evaporated.”

“But it didn't. There's always love.”

“I know. I just didn't expect it to sit down next to me at my Dad's engagement dinner.” Eliza looked at Andrew tenderly and gave him a reluctant smile. “The way you saw me... the way you pushed back the curtain made it impossible for me to hide. And I didn't like it so I fought it. I think part of me wanted to ruin you at first with a quick illicit ride or a bit of hide and seek handjob under your robe during Mass.”

“Wha—?!” Andrew was speechless but also a little turned on.

“I told you, I'm awful.” Eliza surrendered a small laugh. “...But that instinct to take something sacred from you... it just, well it just vanished. I sat across from you in that tiny room full of tat and holy ephemera, and I realized the love hadn't evaporated. It had just taken time to find someone new to settle into.”

“Huh.”

Eliza looked up and wagged her finger at the ceiling, “When you think about it, it was pretty clever of Him to give it to you.”

“Yeah? You think?”

“Well, as hidey holes go, you can't really find a less likely place for an atheist to look than in a church.”

“You've got a point.” Andrew laughed.

“But I think He chose you because you were broken too. He knew I wouldn't trust anyone... I wouldn't let someone in if I couldn't see their pain.”

“What makes you say I'm broken?” Andrew asked. It was a rhetorical question but he was curious to hear her answer.

“I think that's what you came here to tell me tonight.” Eliza wiped the last tear from her cheek and straightened her back against the couch. “I don't want to hide anything from you ever again. And I don't think you want to hide from me either.”

“No.” Andrew took a deep breath. “I tried, but I can't make it work. I need you to know how I got here. Because we can't go any further if you don't know the truth.”


	16. Don't Pity Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew shares his past with Eliza.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I've done justice with my version of his sins/secrets. It took me quite a while to plot out something truly repulsive and possibly unforgivable. I'd love to know other theories about his troubled past and how it lead him to the church...

“I tried to tell you the night before the wedding. I wanted to you to understand.” Andrew had withdrawn a bit. It was his turn to be vulnerable. “I need you to understand who I am, who I was before I found my faith.”

“You know it won't change the way I feel?” 

Eliza put her hand over his, her thumb tracing arcs across his knuckles. They sat in silence for a few minutes while he gathered his courage. Here and there they'd steal a glance at each other, but it was hard for Andrew to look her in the eye for long. The sadness that hung about them at the bus stop was nowhere to be found. It was an unrushed, respectful silence, and the intimacy of the their ease at last enabled him to speak.

“When I was a child I was really close to my Mum. My Dad hadn't planned to have kid, but then they had my brother Ewan... so when my Mum got pregnant again, my Dad didn't take it so well. But I was my Mum's favorite. She used to call me 'mu storín,' ...it's Irish. It's like— 'my little treasure.'”

“But when I was maybe eight...? My Mum and Dad had a massive fight. Ewan told me to stay in bed but my Mum let out scream and I wanted to protect her. So I listened at their door. Mum said she'd been cheating on him. With a woman.” He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “She had a mile-long list of missed opportunities she blamed him for and said she planned to leave. To leave us. And I was too young to understand then that she'd never loved him, really. She'd just been too afraid to be herself... Ireland only legalized same-sex marriage a few years ago. She didn't have a lot of options back then.”

“Anyway. Her softness wore away and she really ante'd up on the drink. It broke my heart to lose her love. I could understand wanting to leave him. Even Ewan— he was... well, you know how he turned out. But she couldn't be bothered to look at me without a drink in her hand. So I'd pour it out when she wasn't looking. I hid the bottles. Sometimes I drank it myself. I came to rather like the taste, but it didn't slow her down at all.”

Eliza patiently listened, aware that he'd spent a lot of time becoming comfortable enough to share this with her.

“It wasn't long before I stopped pouring the bottles out. And I added a few vices of my own. When I was in my twenties I slept with loads of people. School friends, my Mum's friends, complete strangers, women and men... I wasn't picky. Just trying on people to see if any'd fit. When I was twenty-six I met Hanna.”

“I was working in Dublin and I'd run through most of the local folks, some of 'em twice. I was bored and she was so pretty... new. I didn't deserve her. She was endlessly tending to me... nursing my hangovers, doing the wash. She mothered me in a way. And she said she loved me. And it'd been so long since anyone had loved me—.”

“But it didn't turn me on to be loved. So I'd stay out all night and mess about. It didn't matter what I did, who I smelled of... she always took me back. And being in her bed cast a spell on me. I never slept so well as in Hanna's bed. Her bed was so warm and she was gorgeous, but Hanna's devotion smothered me and I could barely get hard anymore. I think I.... well, I think I felt entitled to more.”

“About a year in I told Hanna there was a girl who'd been at the bar all night. I skipped the part about having a shift in the loo with her before closing because I needed to get to the point. So I said, 'This girl,' ...Julie— no Julia, 'She'd asked if I'd ever have a go at a three-way.' And I'd laughed like it was ridiculous but I was dipping a toe in, checking the water, right? I was so selfish! I was being unbelievably cruel. She tried to laugh it off and it was a week before she agreed, but I didn't waste any time making plans.” 

“That night, we three got back to Hanna's flat and I was already off my face. My mate had given me some billy and I chased it with more than one whiskey straight. Hanna was being shy... not getting into it, you know? So Julie—” Andrew turned a bit red at making the mistake twice. He was so embarrassed of his history. 

“Julia and I carried on as if Hanna wasn't even there. We were a disgusting mess of sweat and limbs, just feverish with sex and drugs.” Andrew's face betrayed his disgust but he carried on, “So when Hanna did try... she tried to join us, and I told her to....” He took a deep breath. “I told her...” he started again but pressed his mouth into a tight line and closed his eyes. He wet his lips and rolled them brutally. His mouth had become thick and swampy, and his thickened tongue mopped his upper teeth as it dragged across them, the taste of his shame turned his stomach. Andrew was transformed in his regret. His eyes were wet and dull and he drew himself further inward. He wrested his hands from Eliza's hold and couldn't keep them still. 

“It's okay. Whatever you have to tell me— it's okay.”

“No. No, it's not.” Andrew remained unconvinced.

“But it is. I love you.”

“No!” Andrew was adamant. “You see, I told her to— to 'wait— her turn.'” Andrew met Eliza's eyes, challenging her to not be repulsed by him. Eliza tried to hold forgiveness in her eyes but she was startled and had no place to look but down as she registered the cruelty of his words. 

“And she did. She recoiled as if I'd hit her. She curled herself into a ball on the armchair. Soundless. Naked. And she focused just beyond us—,” he said, his finger tapping at an imagined spot in the air. He dragged his palm down his face roughly, his features made putty by the force of his self-hatred. ”She willed herself to see past us.”

“Andrew—.”

“No, let me finish. I have to finish.” His words were tumbling out now. “When I woke in the morning, Hanna hadn't moved. I tried to shake her out of it. The flat stank of sweat and booze and I needed a drink but I couldn't make her leave. She wouldn't leave the bloody chair! I told her she was being overly sensitive, foolish even. When she started crying I got angry and told her she was pathetic. That she was ridiculous! That she had to be desperate for someone to love and a— a stupid cunt to think that might be me.” 

There was a long silence between them while Andrew rocked just slightly as if a child out of sorts. “I made her witness my vulgar gluttony and then castigated her for being more human than me. I punished her for caring.”

“When I got back from the shop with a bottle in hand the bed had been stripped bare and she'd showered and dressed. Her hair was still wet and her skin looked red and raw. The stale air lingered like a vile kind of incense and I could just hear the kettle coming to boil. I leaned against the door to the bedroom prepared to make my apology but she stood and crossed the distance between us. The force of her palm across my face radiated through my jaw.” 

“Whoa, she hit you?!” Eliza said, surprised.

“No. Don't pity me. I earned it. And I've never let myself forget how calm she was when she finally spoke. It was almost as if she knew hysteria would have watered down the message. She said, 'Your heart is— rotten. You don't know how to love or how to be loved. Only a merciful God could see fit to show you the love you don't deserve... anyone else would be an eejit to waste their time.”

“Yeah. Wow.”

“I split her in two that night— cracked her right open. And she she was right. I told her as much some time later, after I'd done a run with Alcoholics Anonymous and started seminary. I had to make amends and thank her, genuinely, for showing me the way to Him. Because He...” Andrew pointed upward reverentially, “He set me on a path. He delivered me from the ruin I'd made of my life and the people who loved me.”

“Andrew, that sounds awful. But people change... they do. Christ, you don't want to know half the things I did in my twenties.” Her eyes grew wide and she tried to offer him her sympathy in a smile. 

“No, I know. I know, I did change. I entered the seminary. I pursued a love that is pure and without limits. I set myself to loving God unconditionally and to becoming a vessel in his name. And He taught me to forgive myself.”

“But—.” Eliza feared she was losing him all over again.

Andrew reached for Eliza's hand. “If you keep interrupting me, how am I supposed to get to telling you that I found redemption in God, but I found salvation in you? At the restaurant I saw you. I saw something alight in your eyes but you kept a distance and moved among your family like they were made of glass and you were a hammer. I saw you strike first— well, literally and figuratively, with Martin, with your Godmother... What a viper that woman is...” Andrew's eyes we wide with disbelief, “ she's disastrously insecure.”

Eliza felt as if she'd finally been seen.

“You seemed to hold yourself at arm's length and I couldn't figure out why. And at first I thought He'd sent you so I could help you heal. And then I thought the Devil'd sent you. I started saying and doing things I never thought I would do. I cracked open the door more and more each time I saw you. I couldn't stop myself! I wanted to be near you all the time. I felt alive again when I was with you and awful all the rest.” 

Eliza's heart raced to realize it had been a mutual attraction from the start. She beamed at him, hopeful and full of admiration.

“I knew you wanted to have sex with me but I thought it was a perverse challenge. I thought you wanted the collar. You might be surprised to know an awful lot of women fantasize about men like me.”

“Oh I don't doubt that. I looked it up. There's loads of us. I nearly joined a support group,” Eliza joked, trying to quell the anticipation and hope building in her.

“I thought if I kept God between us... if I kept the church in your sight... I invited you to our pitiful Fete, I highlight a bloody Bible and asked you to read it... I mean, I took you shopping for vestments! I thought for sure that'd throw you. Is there anything less sexy than a man in an ornately embroidered oversized night shirt?! I really tried.”

“It's not about any of that. ...Though I'll admit to some post-shopping image searches. There was this one photo of the Pope... I'll send you a link...” she realized Andrew wasn't quite done making his point and abruptly dropped the papal fashion talk.

“You know I was supposed to love one thing, and somehow I made room for another. When you pushed me away at the cafe I was desperate to understand what injury I was meant to salve... I thought I had missed something. But you slipped away. I touched a nerve and it was like watching you draw back into a shell. I could see it plain as day. Which is how I knew that if you let me in, if you lowered your defenses that I wouldn't be able to turn away from you. You'd let me get so close and it felt so good... that wall was your last defense.”

“I thought I needed it.”

“And then you came to the church and sat in my confessional. And we breathed whiskey as we wrestled with our demons. I heard your heart. I saw you. I saw a beautiful, fractured, honest woman. An unbelievably strong woman with a depth of feeling... and the courage to ask questions and confront uncertainty. I never thought I'd see myself in someone so clearly, the effect was... it was dizzying. The pull only became stronger.” 

“Could have fooled me.”

“I know, I'm sorry. I panicked. I misread the signs. I thought He meant to redirect me back to my faith. All his ploys for my attention, His gestures were meant to help me see the magic in front of me. To understand it wasn't chance that we met. So 'course I had to make it stop. I knew exactly what I was doing when I rang Claire for your address. I was convinced I could inoculate myself. And then you answered the door dressed like a bloody Bond girl. I knew if you let me in, I wouldn't leave until I'd had you. And you did. And I did. “

“Yes, we did.”

“God, did we ever.” They shared a laugh fringed with sexual tension. Eliza bit her cheek and looked at him, urging him to continue.

“And I thought if I just put on the outfit, if I played the part... if I could get through the day and keep my distance long enough, that your Dad and Godmother would be married, my job would be done... Clare and Martin were hardly regulars at the Parish, you know.” 

“Yeah, I guess they've discovered there's not much future in bassoon solos.” Again, Eliza wielded her humor. Andrew took her hands in his.

“Listen, at the bus stop you asked if it was God.” He let his words settle, knowing how his lie had hurt her. “It wasn't God, it was fear. I didn't want to give up the peace I'd worked so hard to find. Devotion is easy. The accounting of wrongs and rights is tallied long after we leave this Earth. Love is risk. It's strength to face your mistakes, to face rejection, to give yourself over completely to another imperfect soul. It wasn't until after I'd left you, all the way fighting the resistance of an invisible tether... after the fox—”

“What?! I saw a fox! You had a fox too? What happened?! You a foxboy now?” she couldn't resist a little harassment.

“Your foxboy, maybe.” The mischief lit in his eyes. “I realized the God I believe in isn't cruel. It isn't all or nothing. We wouldn't have survived this long if it were. I'd been believing in something awful when I could have imagined something wonderful. I believed I had to choose and that my duty was my punishment. I hadn't grasped that my forgiveness wasn't contingent on a life of servitude. I was afraid I wasn't worth much without this work.”

Andrew brought Eliza's hand to lay flat on his chest. “I can't promise you He won't be a part of my life but I don't want to chose between you two. I don't have to. I can do the work other ways. In a way that makes it possible for us to be together. ...You'd said you loved me. “

“I did.” A smile curled the corner of Eliza's mouth.

“Do you still?” he asked, nearly breathless.

“Never more than now,” Eliza said straight-faced and confident, allowing their shared vulnerability to underscore her words.

“Oh God. I love you so much.” Andrew reached for her face and drew her in for a deep, indulgent kiss. With every kiss, the kinetic energy grew between them, each touch a catalyst for the next.

Eliza suddenly drew herself away from Andrew, “Do you think we could leave God out for a bit? You know, sort of leave a sock on the door for the man upstairs?”

Andrew laughed, his face flushed as he began kissing her again. Between kisses he replied, “Oh, absolutely. Besides, I have some downright unholy thoughts about tying you up to the bedposts and I'm desperate to confess.”

“Only if you let me tie you up first...” Eliza laughed as Andrew nipped at her neck.


	17. Ignition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza and Andrew can't get enough of each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little something to get you started. More to come. ;)

A small pile of homemade restraints cluttered the bedside in Eliza's room. A fashionable yellow leather belt, a silk scarf, a singular sassy rainbow dress sock, and the charging cable to a long-gone iPhone had all honorably served and since been retired. 

Eliza lay with her head at Andrew's feet, her legs lazily draped over his lap, and one hand flung over the side of the bed with a lit cigarette between her fingers. She blew smoke upward and he caressed her calves gently with the fingers of his hand. The pads of his fingers traveled up and down and the rhythm soothed him. Looking over her he could lose himself in the peachskin of her belly, the hills and valley of her succulent breasts. Even naked, heat radiated from her and she warmed his thigh where it met with her arse. 

With his left hand he cupped her cheek, and his thumb traveled in small circle on the delicate skin of her underside. 

“Would you let me draw you?” he asked.

“Draw? Me?” Eliza asked surprised. “What like one of Leo DiCaprio's French ladies?”

Andrew laughed, “No.” He lifted Eliza' ankle and brought her right heel to rest on his chest. “I just want you naked for as long as it takes to capture every inch of you.” He began kneading her sole with one hand as the circles of his thumb were drawn wider and wider, slowly inching closer inward to where her pink lips peeked from between her legs.

“I suppose I could be the next Mona Lisa,” Eliza said, one eyebrow arched in consideration.

“Does that make me Da Vinci?”

“Yes. Yes it does. You know, I always thought she looked as though she'd just made a fart.” Eliza and Andrew laughed. He loved to see her laugh. Her eyes lit up and her clever mouth danced. “Why is it that more men don't give foot rubs?” Eliza asked out of the blue.

“I haven't the faintest. I could lose a day just on these perfect toes.” Andrew admired her feet and began to roll her toes away from the flat of her foot, kneading one at a time. He kissed her sole and nipped at the soft balls of her feet. “I just want to eat you up.”

“Well you've already done 'out,' ...and 'under,' ...I'd love to know what 'up' entails.” The look Eliza gave him was as much an invitation as he needed.

“So you won't object if I start here?” Andrew didn't wait for a reply before he flattened his tongue against the delicate skin of her arch and stroked upward, taking her whole big toe into his mouth.

“Oh, god. That— that feels... oh, god, that's unbelievable.” Eliza brought a hand to her forehead before she realized she had ashed on her duvet. “Shit! Shit! I've got to put this out before we start a fire.” Andrew laughed, his lips still wrapped around her toe, his tongue stroking the sensitive skin as his mouth sucked gently. Without a proper ashtray on hand, Eliza stretched just far enough to put her cigarette out in a tumbler half full of wine as she moaned, “Uhhhnnnnn.”

Eliza imagined the sensation of having her toe submerged into the delicious cavity of Andrew's mouth to be the closest thing to getting a blowjob she'd ever get. She had no idea her feet were so sensitive and the caress of Andrew's tongue sent a tsunami of signals to her brain and body all at once. She could hardly imagine this feeling multiplied by the generosity of five more inches. The thought was intoxicating. It occurred to her that perhaps this is what they were referring to when they talked of “penis envy.” 

With her leg propped in his hand, Andrew explored her toes with his mouth. He ran his fingers lightly over her skin, just grazing them. Eliza had closed her eyes and was now quietly humming in pleasure. He watched as her chest rose and fell and waited for her to take the next deep breath. On her inhale he brought his left hand to his mouth and made his thumb slick with his warm spit. Then he anchored his palm back on her right cheek, and just as her exhale waned, he expertly snaked his thumb between her warm, wet lips and plunged it into her silky soft pussy. 

“AaaaaAAAAaaaaaa,” Eliza gasped, her surprise and pleasure mixed like a heady elixir. Andrew relished the sensations of Eliza's depths. Like any man he was a big fan of giving it up the bum, but the musculature of a woman's cunt, the way it became slick and uniquely scented— the sensation was like ten tongues eagerly undulating as one. Eliza's cunt was glorious.

While he massaged the velveteen underside of her pubic bone, his fingers spread her lips and his index burrowed between the folds to reach her swollen clit. His fingers became glossy as he playfully slid them over and around her clit, occasionally interrupting his meandering with a light three-fingered slap or a two-fingered tease catching the pearl-like nib between his middle and index fingers and drawing its hood up gently. Eliza did not object.

“Please never stop,” Eliza begged.

“I don't intend to,” Andrew said with a smoldering smile.


	18. The Night is Young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza gives Andrew an idea of the coming attractions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying filling in the blanks between these chapters with your own imagination. ;) I'm doing my best to leave just enough to fantasy.

Eliza's back was damp with perspiration and her skin clung lightly to the side of her bureau. She sat on the floor, legs outstretched with Andrew's head in her lap. She brought a cigarette to her lips and took a drag as her free hand swam in the sea of dark brown waves of Andrew's hair. His fucking hair. Her fingers corkscrewed the silky strands in a lazy, exploratory way. She couldn't stop touching his fucking hair.

“You know, there are women who'd pay handsomely to buy your locks?” Eliza mused.

Andrew laughed, “What for?” 

“Oh I dunno... A chic hairpiece? A merkin? Maybe as a therapy pet?” Eliza cough-laughed small puffs of cigarette smoke, quite amused by herself.

“What on Earth is a 'merkin'?” Andrew made a face as if the awkwardness of the word made him cringe.

“Geez, they really don't teach you anything at Seminary, do they? You know, maybe you should ask for a refund?” She tried to keep straight-faced but she was having far too much fun.

“Yeah.” Andrew dropped his voice an octave, “'Uh, hi. Yes— Bishop Franklin? Yes, it's Father Andrew of St. Andrew's in London. Yeah, um, my... girlfriend? She suggested I call and ask for my money back...” he held his hand to his ear and nodded as if he were talking on a cell phone, “uh huh... oh, and right, my conversion paperwork is forthcoming for obvious reasons.'” He snorted, “I think that'll land spectacularly.”

“Well, if they had any idea what type of 'ministry' I've been receiving, they might send the Man himself to strike you down.” Eliza was glad they could have a laugh about their situation. She was relieved to stop thinking about God coming between them anymore. Or her grief. It felt reassuring to think their love was big enough to manage it all. “And of course there are all the things I've done to you tonight...”

“Sure, sure.” Andrew nodded in agreement.

“I mean, especially that thing I did with my finger up your bum while I heroically fought my gag reflex so I could savor every inch of your incredible, thick, throbbing cock... or how I deliberately flooded my mouth with spit to make your dick as slippery as a greased pole before my lips churned butter faster than an eighteenth century milk maid and you came all over my tits...”

Andrew was speechless and looked a bit confused. His hand, however had automatically been summoned by the racy dialogue and Andrew couldn't help but massage the base of his penis just to ease the tension of getting hard.

“...And we definitely shouldn't forget that time I was stuffed with a bright pink XL dildo while you pinched my nips and fucked my mouth with my head over the side of the bed... I mean, I just think we should be upfront about the severity of the situation.” Eliza gave a devilish grin and made as if she were massaging her cheek, “I can almost feel my jaw aching from hyperextension on that last one.”

“Eliza...?”

“Oh, wait!” She feigned surprise. “That was just the outline for the next hour. Right then,” she nudged her cigarette butt among the dead soldiers in her tumbler of ashy wine and looked about as if searching for something misplaced. “Now where's that gorgeous cock of... ahhhhh, yes.” Her silly grin became abruptly serious as she looked into Andrew's eyes. “Listen, babe, I'm loving the chit chat, but I have to see a man about a cock.”

Eliza moved so quickly, Andrew's head bounced lightly on the floor as it fell from her lap. Before he'd even brought a hand to rub the bump, Eliza had swung a leg over his torso to sit astride his chest. Her perfect arse was perched within inches of his face and he heard Eliza rub her hands together gently. Eliza arched her low back, and like a curtain rising on Act Two her pelvis lifted off his chest just enough for him to watch the slick lips of her beautiful mouth open and descend on his impatient erection.


	19. Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flash forward. Andrew and Eliza are ready to go public with their relationship and they plan to do so in a spectacularly satisfying fashion.

352 days later.

Andrew twisted the ornate mechanical doorbell and its shrill, “d-d-d-drrrriiiiiinnnnggg.” announced his arrival. 

“Be a lamb, would you?...” from inside he heard the familiar voice dripping with condescension and false affection.

He crouched to give the toes of his black leather chukka boots a quick brush. As he stood he picked up the absurdly expensive bottle of wine at his side and ran his fingers through his hair. Reflexively he reached to loosen the collar that he no longer wore just as a silhouette appeared in the window. He ran his hand through his hair again and then down the length of his shirt as if to tidy himself.

As the door opened, Eliza appeared twisted at the waist as she shouted back to the interior, “I've got it!”

She turned back to Andrew and took the sight of him in as he stood waiting. He was a fucking vision. How had he ever been content restricted to a dour wardrobe of black on black with the occasional bedazzled bedshirt for special ceremonies? Furthermore, for a man who consumed his body weight in Cadbury's chocolate and percy pigs on a regular basis it was a mystery how he stayed so fit. 

“Hello, trouble.” Eliza smiled at him approvingly, mischief glinting in her eyes. She leaned into him, kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear. “Such a tease. You know she won't be able to stop staring.” Her breath was warm and she bit her lip suggestively as she returned to stand. They had chosen an outfit for the dinner earlier but he'd clearly revised his choices. His black trousers fit him wonderfully. They were were sharply tailored and just tight enough in the seat to arouse curiosity. He wore a crisp white dress shirt under a modern linen sport coat in a cozy charcoal grey. The man knew how to dress.

“You said you wanted to make a lasting impression.” He grinned and followed her into the house.

Phillip hadn't been able to make a reservation at Roslín for the occasion. After last year's very public row resulting in two black eyes and a pair of bloody noses, the restaurant was conspicuously booked solid as soon as he gave his surname. Olivia tried to convince him they could celebrate their anniversary elsewhere, but Phillip insisted they host instead. When she began with her standard protest of, “Honestly darling...” he exaggerated the challenge of booking a large party and promised her they'd cater the desserts. Truth be told, having dinner at home was a sort of insurance policy that no more innocent bystanders would be injured should sparks ignite. 

Everyone rose from their seats at the dinner table as Eliza and Andrew entered from the hall.

“Father?” Clare feigned surprise. “Dad, you didn't tell us this was a reunion. You didn't invite that poor waitress too, did you?”

The group laughed uneasily and Phillip stammered a reply, “No, ehm. Not. No, just, ehm, ...him, here...”

“Thank god.” Clare rolled her eyes. Despite having spent a week hosting Eliza and Andrew in Finland just last month, she was doing a fantastic job at playing dumb. Her body language was tight and she spoke in the now-retired but still familiar clipped tone of old Clare. Finland Clare was excited but London Clare had to appear put out or at least mildly constipated. This was going to be marvelous.

“It's lovely to see you all. I'm just so pleased to have been asked.” Andrew appeared to note Clare's cold reception.

“Ugh! Father!” Olivia immediately began to fawn over him in a dramatic fashion. “Don't you look... modern...” Olivia's eyes widened as she oggled him without shame. “My,” she reached out and lightly squeezed his bicep in appreciation, “I had no idea you cut such a... solid figure. Have you become one of those CrossFit priests of Instagram?”

"No, no...." Andrew laughed and leaned his head forward as Olivia darted toward him to give a theatrical air kiss. Looking around the table, he landed on a pair of ice blue eyes, “Fuck. I'm so sorry,” Andrew moved out of Olivia's desperate orbit and put his hand out across the table to Klare. “You must be Klare?”

Klare laughed and his absurdly perfect teeth flashed the room. He took Andrew's hand and gave him a firm, confident handshake. “Yes, yes, and you're the— the swearing Priest. I recognize your face from the wedding photo. You're edgy priest, cool priest,” Klare said with his eyes squinting slightly and nodded his head in appreciation.

Andrew chuckled. “Glad to hear my reputation precedes me. It's a genuine pleasure to meet you.”

“Sit, sit, everyone sit,” Phillip insisted.

Eliza calmly took her seat to Andrew's left and she stole a look at him as she settled a napkin on her lap. This was it. Showtime. She looked across to Clare and Klare and gave them a quick, furtive wink. She raised her champagne flute and caught her Godmother's eye, "To love!" she declared.

"To love!" rang a chorus of voices around the table. 

Eliza held her glass aloft a moment longer than the rest, her eyes holding Olivia's gaze as she upended the flute and drank the entire glass in one fell swoop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the big reveal.


	20. Words of Wisdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the game begin. The sisters and their partners work to set the scene.

Olivia's eyes bounced from face to face around the table registering something askew. Eliza was oddly calm. If Olivia was honest, family gatherings weren't quite as entertaining as they used to be. Their head-to-head battles had diminished greatly in frequency since the wedding, and she missed the verbal bloodsport of reminding Eliza who held the reins. 

“Happy anniversary, Dad,” said Eliza.

“Yes, happy anniversary, Dad,” echoed Clare.

Klare cleared his throat. “In Finland, we have expression, 'avioliitossa meillä on...' erm, 'In marriage we hold... peili.'” He paused searching for the right translation before his eyes lit up, “A mirror! Yes. 'Love generously and you are a... a lighthouse,' ehm, sort of— safe harbor, 'for if you are selfish love, you reflect only deep ice water in your dark soul.'” Klare beamed his broad smile around the table, seeming blissfully unaware of how ill-fitting his quote was for the occasion. 

Olivia startled ever so slightly. “Oh. Well.”

“Huh.” Phillip cocked his head slightly, his eyes wandering as he tried to parse Klare's well-intentioned token of Finnish wisdom.

Andrew raised his glass in salute, “So true. Excellent choice, Klare.”

“Perhaps something was lost in the translation?” Olivia grimaced and laughed before offering an awkward smiled at Klare.

“I've always been partial to the wisdom of Winnie the Pooh,” Andrew began to share.

“The silly bear! And the little pig!” Klare lit up. “Oh little pig...” Klare put his hand over his heart, “such big love.” 

Everyone laughed a little and Andrew continued, “Pooh says 'Love is taking a few steps backward, maybe even more to give way to the happiness of the person you love.'”

A wave of, “Awwww”s made a round of the table. 

Eliza turned to Andrew, looked at him tenderly, and reached her hand to lightly stroke Andrew's tricep. “That one is— excellent.”

Olivia blinked in quick succession as her eyes darted around the table looking for some validation that Eliza's overly familiar and frankly flamboyant flirtation was out of order. Everyone seemed to be focused on their food. Olivia wondered if she'd hallucinated the gesture. Had they not seen? Her eyes turned to Phillip only to catch him lose a flaccid green bean off the end of his fork. 

Abruptly Clare put her silverware neatly to the side of her plate, her hands lingering on the table in an oddly conspicuous manner. She looked briefly as though she might vomit. All eyes were drawn to her. 

“Clare? Is everything—?” Eliza began.

The smile that came to Clare's face was disquieting in its sincerity. She so rarely showed genuine joy and it transformed her with a beautiful warmth. “I've got one. I'm next.” Just beyond the edge of Olivia's field of vision, Clare stealthily winked at Eliza.

“Oh, what fun!” Phillip said, relieved for a little levity at a family event and entirely oblivious to the subterfuge.

Olivia was decidedly less enthusiastic. “I didn't realize we were playing games,” she said with a pasted on smile. “How quaint.” She clapped her hands together reluctantly. “Alright, what are the rules? Who goes next?”

Eliza stifled a laugh. “Don't be ridiculous, you love games.” Looking straight at Olivia, she added, “Don't worry— you'll catch on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the idea of Godmother getting put through the wringer. There's a bit more torture before we see some more Eliza/Andrew lovin' but I hope you'll stay tuned.


End file.
